


Studied, Chris/Karl, RPF, PG-13

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, LiveJournal, M/M, POV Second Person, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	Studied, Chris/Karl, RPF, PG-13

A little rpf UST comment fic for [this Daily Captain and Doctor](http://community.livejournal.com/jim_and_bones/218619.html?view=5615611#t5615611) at [](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile)[**jim_and_bones**](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/) , pics members locked, 'cause y'all know the drill.  You want the pretty pictures, you gots to join up.  And damn, those boys have "very fine eyes," as Mr. Darcy might say.

Warnings:  Angst, UST, no sequels.  _No_.  Don't even go there.  Language, married!Karl, crosswords, Chris munching on pens.  2nd person POV-- you need to be warned about that.

Disclaimers:  Not my whales (or my disclaimer, but it's a mighty fine one, so I will borrow it and thank the anon who coined it.)

This fic now has a sequel/remix:  Patching Havoc by [](http://roflolmaomg.livejournal.com/profile)[**roflolmaomg**](http://roflolmaomg.livejournal.com/) .  You can find the utter brilliance from Chris' POV [here](http://roflolmaomg.livejournal.com/51385.html).

\--

It's all of that contrast that draws you constantly in-- hypnotic, erotic, all that poetic shit. Pale and dark, ocean-shifting blues and dark blond, smooth white skin and harsh stubble, iris and pupil and lashes and eyebrow and those tiny white hairs that fringe the edge of his perfect round ears-- and then there's the wonky eyebrows that have never been groomed a day in their life, those pale perfect lips just a little bit chapped and red in the middle because damned if the man could pay any attention to that kind of shit. He's not a vain man, Pine-- wears what his publicist or Quinto or Zoe tells him to wear and slouches around in terrible clothes the rest of the time, stuff that makes you alternately shudder in horror and hard as a rock, since the kid looks damned fine in a suit and fuck if he can't fill out a tight pair of jeans-- not that he seems to pay any attention to people's reactions.

Including yours.

All well and good.

He looks up from his crossword-- the old-fashioned kind, not on some e-reader or laptop but a real newspaper, and sticks the end of his pen in his mouth. In the bright sun of the hotel cafe-- a short break before you all go back in to get grilled all over again-- he smiles at you with an inquisitive look on his face.

"Sorry. Not the best company," he says, then gnaws on the end of his pen, tongue flicking spit over the tip.

Jesus.

Your straw-- your iced coffee-- it's something to suck on, some way to choke down your real response, a lunge over the table as the sun makes his eyes turn wedgewood, then navy as the cloud cover lifts and casts him even more into relief.

Just not you-- you're not getting any anytime soon.

At last, you spit your straw out. "S'alright. I chain smoke and drink coffee between inane questions, you do your crosswords." Somehow, you make it sound natural.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling and dark lashes dusting pale, smooth cheeks before he grins widely-- whitely-- like you weren't already won.

Not that he knows. You think. Maybe. There are moments when you catch him looking at you, his eyes almost as clear as those films about glaciers, but he never says anything, just like you don't. Haven't. Won't.

It'd be your move to make, you think, all the same-- you're the creep who watches his every damned move, despite the ring on your finger and the tattoo beneath.

He looks down at his crossword, then looks back at you, his eyes clearing.

"Nine letter word for seen?"

"Perceived."

He looks at you again-- blinks once-- twice-- and it's got to be your imagination that his cheeks turn a little bit pink because it's only a second or two-- because he just says "thanks," bends his head back to his puzzle, and puts that pen back in his mouth after recording the answer.

You watch for a few moments more, then light a new fag. It'll be another half hour before you have to go in. You've got plenty of time to indulge yourself-- his puzzle's only halfway inked in.

Except-- when you look up from stowing your lighter-- navy eyes, shading to glacier, dotted with black in a pristine white sea-- they're studying you.

"That striped shirt makes your eyes look both jade green and amber," he says without any preamble at all. He licks his chapped lips, doesn't smile, and bends back to his puzzle, posing a new puzzle thereby.

What the hell does that mean? What the fuck does it matter what color your goddamned eyes are?


End file.
